What It Was

by George Pelecanos

  “You’d never see that in New York,” said Fanella, looking through the windshield of the Lincoln, idling along the curb down by Kenyon.

  “The Final Comedown,” said Gregorio, reading the title of the movie showing on the Tivoli’s marquis.

  “Never heard of it,” said Fanella.

  “ ‘The man got down,’ ” said Gino, reading the copy in smaller letters below the title. “ ‘The brothers were ready.’ What’s that mean, Lou?”

  “Damn if I know.” Fanella pointed a finger at the young folks standing in line for tickets to the matinee. “And I bet none of those rugheads know, either.”

  Fanella and Gregorio followed the taxi as it went down Irving Street, North Capitol, Michigan Avenue, South Dakota, and Bladensberg Road, then onto a long bridge built over a steady-flowing river. On the busy commercial strip of Minnesota Avenue, they saw a woman bent over the trunk of a D.C. squad car, writhing under the grip of a police officer who was attempting to cuff her. They could hear her cursing the cop with venom and creativity as they drove by.

  Fanella and Gregorio laughed.

  “THAT’S IT,” said Strange, as Vaughn went down one of the high-fifty streets of Burrville, where houses, some run-down and some well kept, sat on large plots of land.

  “I see it,” said Vaughn, and he kept the Monaco at a steady rate of speed, studying a two-story, asbestos-shingled house as he drove on. He cut a left at the next corner, a single-syllable cross street, and let off the gas, crawling by an alley that ran behind the houses of the block he’d just covered.

  “That’s the one,” said Vaughn.

  Strange saw a gold Buick Electra parked in the backyard of the house whose address matched the phone number Henry Arrington had dialed. The yard had a low fence of heavy-gauge chicken wire strung between wood posts.

  Vaughn executed a one-eighty in a driveway, turned the Dodge around, and put it along the mouth of the alley. He examined the house. Its second story held bedroom windows, and outside those windows was a gently pitched roof over a screened porch. There was not much of a drop from the roof to the soft yard. A glass-paneled door, accessed by a few iron steps, was situated right beside the porch. If it was a typical house of this type, Vaughn guessed that the door would lead to a kitchen that would open to a living-room area, which would hold steps leading up to the second-floor bedrooms.

  “Well?” said Strange.

  “They’re in there.”

  “I was you, I’d call it in.”

  “Not today.” Vaughn stared at the house. “You know what a man is, in the end? You know what defines him?”

  “I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”

  “His dick and his work. It’s no more complicated than that.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “When a guy’s equipment doesn’t function anymore, it’s all over. When he has no job, he has no purpose. There’s no reason to get up in the morning. He’s done.”

  “Far as I know, you’re still there in the manhood department, Vaughn. And you do your job.”

  “The white shirts think I fell down on this Jones thing. They think I’ve lost a step.”

  “And, what, you’re gonna prove ’em wrong?”

  “The clock ticks. You get toward the finish line, you realize that what’s important is the name you leave behind.” Vaughn nodded toward the house. “Red Jones gets it. You don’t, because you’re still young. But you will.”

  “I’m not goin in there with you.”

  “I don’t expect you to. Watch the house is all I’m asking. Make sure I don’t get blindsided.”

  Vaughn gave the Dodge gas. He drove across the numbered street, turned around at the top of a crest, and drove back down to the corner so that he could keep an eye on the front of the house. He curbed the Monaco and killed its engine. He slid a pack of L&Ms from his jacket, lit a cigarette, and snapped his Zippo shut.

  As he exhaled smoke, a taxi pulled up in front of the house. They watched as an attractive young woman got out and was handed a couple of pieces of luggage, one medium-sized and one small, by the driver, who had retrieved them from the trunk.

  “You know her?” said Strange.

  “She’s in Coco’s stable. Goes by Shay. I busted her the other night.”

  They saw her head for the house without paying the driver. The driver got back behind the wheel but did not leave.

  “He’s waiting for her,” said Strange.

  “She’s making some kind of a delivery.”

  “Now’d be a good time to move in, if you’re gonna do it. While they’re off guard.”

  “Let the young lady get out first. She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  “You’re gettin soft.”

  “Soft.” Vaughn grinned. “That’s me.”

  Shay was let into the house through a solid wood door by a woman they both recognized as Coco Watkins. A few minutes later, they saw Shay emerge from the house, get back into the cab, and ride away. From where they sat, neither Vaughn nor Strange could see the black Lincoln that was parked down the block.

  COCO WATKINS carried the suitcase and cosmetic case up the stairs to the bedroom where she and Jones had slept. Jefferson was in the other bedroom, packing a small bag, readying himself to leave.

  Coco had dressed in what she had worn to the concert: tight-fit slacks, a silk blouse, and some costume jewelry. Jones, too, had put on what he had been wearing the night before: rust-colored bells, stacks, and the print rayon shirt opened to expose the top of his abdomen. They had both showered, but their clothes were ripe.

  Cash was in stacks on top of the bed. So were Jones’s Colts. He had cleared the chambers of both .45s, reloaded their magazines, and pushed the mags back into the grips.

  “We ready?” said Coco.

  “Put the money in that suitcase and we’re gone.” Jones looked her over. His eyes went to her long-nailed hands. “Where’s that ring I got you? Don’t you like it?”

  “I was wondering when you were gonna notice. The ring got stole, Red. Someone broke into my spot the night I got arrested.”

  “Was it one of your girls?”

  Coco shook her head. “My girls were with me. You’re not mad?”

  “That ain’t on you. It was fake shit, anyway. We get out of here, I’m gonna buy you somethin real.”

  “You been good to me.”

  Jones looked at her fondly. “A man’s got a stallion like you, he got to take care of it.”

  Coco chuckled. “A stallion’s a boy horse, Red.”

  “You know what I mean.” He moved toward the door and brushed his hand across her hip. She felt a tingle up the back of her neck. “Let me talk to Fonzo before we leave out.”

  Coco unzipped her suitcase and stashed Red’s money alongside the cash that Shay had delivered. She found her car keys on the dresser and slipped them into the pocket of her slacks.

  VAUGHN SLID his .38 Special out of its clip-on holster, released the cylinder, spun it, checked the load, and snapped the cylinder shut. He reaffixed the rig to the belt line of his trousers, then pulled his right trouser leg up and freed a .45 from the holster that was strapped to his ankle. It was a blue steel, short-barreled semiautomatic, a lightweight Colt Commander. He had found it under the cushion of a sofa in a Southeast apartment a year back, and he had made it his own. Vaughn racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, and slipped the .45 back into the holster on his ankle.

  “I’m goin in through the back door,” said Vaughn. “When I come out with Red and the rest of them, radio in for a wagon and cars.”

  “What if I hear shots?”

  “I guess that means it went wrong.” Vaughn removed his hat and dropped it onto the backseat of the Dodge. “You’ll know what to do. You were a police officer. Remember?”

  Strange’s thoughts went back to ’68, when he’d last worn the uniform. In the midst of the riots, he’d lured the man who cut his brother’s throat to a place where Vaughn could kill him. That made Strang
e a murderer, too.

  Vaughn got out of the car. He put his right foot up on the rocker panel and adjusted the leg of his trouser so that it fell cleanly over the holster. He closed the driver’s-side door and stepped across the street, not looking either way in the intersection or at the house, keeping his eyes straight ahead to the alley’s mouth.

  Strange looked at the two-way radio hung beneath the dash.

  FANELLA IDLY watched a big middle-aged white man in a gray suit cross the street at the end of the block. They had seen few people since they’d come here, as most of them were at work. The ones they had seen were black.

  “Who’s the old man?” said Gregorio.

  “I guess they got whites in this neighborhood, too. Some assholes can’t take a hint.”

  “We ready?”

  Fanella glanced at Gregorio. Gino was all right, but he lacked smarts and steel. Fanella didn’t want to be wondering where Gino was or what he was doing when the shooting started. Fanella knew exactly what to do: go in straight, finish them all quick. Get the money and get gone. Fanella needed no distractions.

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Just you?”

  “I need your eyes out here. Bring the car and pick me up when you hear it start to go down.”

  “Lou…”

  “There’s a live thirty-eight under the seat.”

  Fanella removed the keys from the Lincoln’s ignition, opened his door, and went to the rear of the car. Looking around at the lifeless street, he unlocked the trunk and lifted its lid. He found his knee-length white raincoat and put it on. He lifted a Browning 9 mm from under a blanket, released its high-capacity magazine, examined it, palmed the magazine back into the grip, chambered a round, flicked off the safety, and fitted the gun in the waistband of his slacks. He then picked up one of two cut-down pump-action Ithaca 12-gauges that were lying side by side in the bed of the trunk. He broke open a nearby box of steel-shot loads. Working low, he thumbed shells through the ejection port of the shotgun, and when he felt the stop he released the slide and pushed it forward. There would be no time to draw the Ithaca, so he didn’t reach for his sling. He held the cut-down under his raincoat, closed the trunk, and walked to the driver’s side of the Lincoln. Gregorio had moved across the seat and was now under the wheel.

  Fanella dropped the keys into his lap. “This won’t take long. Stay awake for once.”

  “You don’t think I can handle this?”

  “You don’t think?” said Fanella in a high-pitched voice. His bushy eyebrows came together comically as he smiled. “Quit actin like a fuckin girl, Gino. I’ll see you in a few.”

  Gregorio’s face reddened as he watched Fanella walk toward the house.

  JEFFERSON’S BEDROOM was located in the front of the house. Jones and Coco had taken one of the two bedrooms in the rear. A landing separated the rooms, with a banister running across it that broke open at the top of the stairs. Jones walked down the landing and into Jefferson’s room.

  Alfonzo Jefferson stood by the bed in his wide-striped bells, synthetic shirt, and two-tone stacks. His woven hat was cocked just so on his small head, and his .38 Special was in his hand. He was winding rubber bands around its grip, held fast with black electrical tape.

  Jones looked Jefferson over: dark, slight, and fierce. They’d had a good run.

  “You ready?” said Jones.

  “Soon as Nique come back with our cigarettes.”

  “We ain’t gonna wait. Me and Coco are about to jet.”

  “Aw’right, then. I’ll see you when I do.”

  Jones stepped forward. “What it was, motherfucker.”

  “What it was.”

  They gave each other skin. And then, from the first floor, they heard someone knocking on the front door.

  Jefferson went to the bedroom window and looked down at the yard. His vision was limited. He had no sight line to the stoop.

  “Is it your woman?” said Jones.

  “Can’t be. She got a key.”

  “Then who the fuck is it?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  Jefferson, gun in hand, left the room. As he walked down the stairs, Jones went directly to the other bedroom and found Coco.

  “What is it?” she said, reading his face.

  Jones looked past her shoulder, through the window to the backyard. She turned her head to follow his gaze and saw what he saw: a white man in a suit, walking toward the back door of the house, his hand on a piece that was holstered on his side.

  “Vaughn,” said Coco.

  Jones lifted his Colts off the bed.

  VAUGHN CAUTIOUSLY took the three iron steps up to the paneled-glass door at the rear of the house. Looking through the kitchen to the living room, he saw a small spidery black man in a hat, walking toward the solid wood front door, carrying a gun. He fit the description of Alfonzo Jefferson. Vaughn pulled his .38 from its holster and moved it close to one of four glass panes on the kitchen door.

  IN THE Monaco, Strange watched a burly white man in a white raincoat take the walkway up to the asbestos-sided house. Strange had not gotten a good look at the men who had ransacked Coco Watkins’s place, but he recognized that coat. As the man got up on the stoop, Strange saw him knock on the door and knock again. He saw him pull a pump-action shotgun from underneath the coat, take a step back, and aim it at the center of the door.

  Strange reached for the radio, lifted the mic from its cradle, and keyed it. He called in a Ten Twenty-Four and, without deliberation, opened his door and stepped out of the car.

  ALFONZO JEFFERSON heard Red shout, “Hey, Fonzo,” but he was already at the front door.

  “In a minute,” said Jefferson, over his shoulder. He turned his attention back to the door, put his face close to it, and said, “Say what you want.” As the last word left his mouth, a great hole blew through the wood. Steel shot peppered Jefferson’s neck and lifted his scalp. He tumbled back over the sofa as if thrown by a sudden gust of wind and landed atop the cable spool table.

  Fanella kicked the door just below its jamb. It swung free and he stepped into the house.

  Fanella saw a figure move back in the kitchen and vanish behind a corner. He went to the little man lying ruined on the table and he pointed the shotgun down at his chest. Fanella kept his finger depressed on the Ithaca’s trigger and with his other hand he racked the pump, and as the round cycled into the chamber the cut-down discharged. The body heaved up and blood freckled Fanella’s face.

  He headed toward the kitchen. Approaching the staircase, he heard movement, and he pointed the shotgun up the stairs and fired, blowing the banister to sticks and splinters, and walked on. He saw the refrigerator door swing open in the kitchen and a man appear over the top of it, and he saw a flash and felt fire. Fanella screamed and pumped the Ithaca, his finger fast on the trigger, and the shotgun roared in his hands.

  A BLACK Continental pulled up in front of the house and a lean blond man got out of the driver’s side as Strange began to cross the street. The blond man walked toward the house, gun in his hand, and Strange broke into a run. He came in at an angle, and as the man turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, Strange hit him low, putting everything he had into it, wrapping the man with his arms as he had been told to do by every coach he’d ever had, on every football field, and he felt air go out of the blond man and in his side vision he saw the pistol fly from his hand as both of them went to the ground, the man still in his grip. Strange heard a shotgun blast and pops from a handgun as the blond man struggled beneath him, his face both reddening and white with scars. The man was strong, and Strange rolled onto his back. He brought the man on top of him and scissored his legs around his middle and got his right arm locked around the man’s neck.

  “Stop it!” said Strange desperately. “Stop.”

  But the man would not stop struggling, and Strange knew he could not hold him much longer. He squeezed his arm tightly around the man’s neck.

  VAUGHN HAD broke
n the glass of the back door, put his hand through the space, and let himself into the kitchen as soon as he heard the first shotgun blast. He went directly to the refrigerator, set beside the doorway to the living room, and crouched against it. The old Frigidaire was a left-hinge model, and Vaughn took note of that as he snicked back the hammer of his .38.

  The shotgun discharged again. Vaughn heard footsteps coming in his direction, and then he heard the shotgun blast once more. There were no odds in waiting longer, and Vaughn moved off of the refrigerator and opened its door. Now it was a shield in the kitchen doorway, and he came up out of a crouch and leaned over the top of the door and, with one hand on his wrist and the other on the trigger, fired rapidly at the figure in white who had leveled his shotgun in Vaughn’s direction. Vaughn squeezed off four rounds and felt the door punched and a hot sting in his eye, and he turned his head and dropped to the linoleum floor and heard a great ringing in his ears and nothing else.

  Vaughn pressed the muzzle of his gun to the floor to steady himself and got to his feet. His face was clammy and wet.

  Closing the refrigerator door, his gun arm extended, Vaughn walked with care toward the big man in the white raincoat, who was lying on his back, blood bubbling from two entry wounds in his chest. He was drowning in the fluids filling his lungs. Vaughn kicked the Ithaca across the room. He stood over the man, shot him one more time, and watched death come to his eyes. Standing there in a cloud of smoke, Vaughn dropped the spent .38 to the hardwood floor.

  He got down on one knee and slid his Colt from the holster strapped to his ankle. Blood flowed freely down his face, but he did not move to wipe it clean.

  This Commander holds seven, thought Vaughn.

  He went to the foot of the stairs and stood beside it with his back to the wall. With caution, he peered around the corner, up the stairway at a shredded banister and darkness.